


Like A Wild Thing Done Right

by anatomical_heart



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Biphobia, Bisexual Tommy, Bitemarks, Bondage, Bruises, Clothes Sharing, D/s elements, Dirty Talk, Dumb Hotties Being Dumb, Gags, Hitting, Lovett Saying Horrible Things To People Because He's Hurting, M/M, No One Asked For This But Surprise! It Ate My Brain For Almost An Entire Year, Not-Great Coping Strategies, Pining, Praise Kink, Restraints, Romantic/Sexual History, Scratching, Secret Relationship, Slapping, Tommy Has So Many Feelings, Unrealistic Political Garbage, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-28 01:44:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13893600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatomical_heart/pseuds/anatomical_heart
Summary: Neither of them had actually told Favs or Emily about what was going on yet; they hadn't told anyone. What were either of them supposed to say? It had only been going on for a couple months. They hadn’t even talked toeach otherabout it, really. Just operated with the understanding that whenever they were alone, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.





	Like A Wild Thing Done Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joshlymanwalkandtalk (Joshlymanwalkandtalk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joshlymanwalkandtalk/gifts).



> So, I started this fic approximately five years ago in June of 2017. Why is this relevant? Well, back then Crooked Media was still in its growing stages. How different are things now versus then? Here's a handy list:
> 
> 1\. There were 5 podcasts: Pod Save America, Pod Save the World, Pod Save the People, Lovett or Leave It, and With Friends Like These  
> 2\. Crooked.com did not exist: There was no formalized original content, no slick artwork, very minimal merch, and the previous website was clunky af  
> 3\. There were no formal Crooked Contributors, but rather recurring guests on the pods (mostly Lovett or Leave It)  
> 4\. Lovett had not yet started wearing his glasses regularly  
> 5\. Pod Tours America was not a thing (there had been sporadic live shows, but no formalized tour), meaning there was no tour manager or wrangler  
> 6\. Elijah and all the behind-the-scenes footage wasn't a regular staple  
> 7\. Live midweek Q&A sessions did not exist because...  
> 8\. The studio at Crooked Media HQ was brand new and still being finished/formally decorated  
> 9\. Favs was still trying to make "Wealthcare" happen  
> 10\. Lovett basically lived next door to Favs and Emily  
> 11\. The Favreau Bachelor Party Weekend had just happened; Favs and Emily had not yet tied the knot  
> 12\. Tommy had not yet proposed to Hannah  
> 13\. Tommy did not yet have a dog of his own  
> 14\. There was a sense of hope that the results of the Mueller investigation would actually do something or mean something  
> 15\. "Where There's Smoke There's Fire Comey" was (and remains) the single greatest Lovett or Leave It episode to date and this fic takes its cues from that episode's greatness
> 
> There are so many more things I could mention, obviously (no TV option, no newsletter, other various things that've happened within the last few months, etc.), but those are some of the most directly applicable to the Crooked Media universe at the time of this fic's inception and throughout the writing process.
> 
> Finally, I would like to give two special shout-outs. First, to @loujanae, who listened to me read the very first incarnation of this fic nearly a year ago, even though she had no idea who any of these basic-ass white politibros were and encouraged me to continue writing just the same. And last, but certainly not least... all of my thanks to @joshlymanwalkandtalk who has been my steadfast beta since the summer and who has provided me with the support and advice needed to complete this, my longest and best fic to date. This would simply not exist were it not for your help. So, this one's for you, friend. Enjoy.

_Lovett or Leave It, it’s Lovett or Leave It… Straight Shoot-er-r…_

Tommy rolled his eyes, grinning. _This fucking song._ He found himself humming it in the shower, sometimes. When he finally realized what he was doing, he would dissolve into obscenities because it would inevitably be in his head for the rest of the day. It was just so fucking _catchy._ Like he’d be waiting for his morning coffee to brew, still in that hazy waking-up place, and he’d catch himself fucking speak-singing, _Straight shoot-er-r_ before letting out a frustrated, _God dammit,_ and he’d instantly cue up a text message to Lovett and say something like, _I hope Leo takes a dump on your lawn this morning._ Without fail, Lovett would reply back with a photo of himself giving a thumbs-up with the caption _Respected on both sides!_ beneath it because he knew _exactly_ why Tommy was texting him ass-early in the morning and he was a _fucking dick_. But hearing that stupid little jingle (Lovett hated when he called it a “jingle”) while sitting in the audience of a _Lovett or Leave It_ show and seeing people who paid actual money for a ticket light up in excitement at hearing it was, he had to admit, kind of incredible. 

Then again, shit with Russia was really starting to hit the fan and people were hungry for any excuse to revel in the schadenfreude. Case in point: This was the biggest _Lovett or Leave It_ show to date with over 2700 seats selling out in a little over three days. And, okay, maybe that wasn’t wholly surprising: The Pods always did better when Trump was getting roasted left, right, and center as opposed to when Dems were fighting to kill wealthcare because everyone wanted to feel superior more than they wanted to feel their hearts, right? Because talking about millions of people getting healthcare ripped away from them by craven cowards who had surrendered their humanity a long time ago was kind of a bummer. Not that he was bitter about it or anything.

Lovett strode onto the stage and was greeted with wild applause and generous whooping, which elicited a big, easy smile from him. “Hey, guys,” he called, visibly enthusiastic. 

Tommy watched from his fifth-row seat as Lovett stopped to survey the room, and caught the brief moment where he let his guard down: A look of genuine amazement, pride, and happiness was stark on his face, torn between disbelief that it was all for him, and positively reveling in the fact he’d finally (maybe, kind of) made it a little bit. As someone who had watched Lovett drop his life in D.C. for different, shinier dreams in L.A. and saw project after project not quite work out the way he’d hoped or believed they would, Tommy knew this moment Meant Something to Lovett. That he’d etch every detail onto his brain with painstaking precision. That he’d recall it in those moments he was faltering for the perfect combination of words—that eloquent, sharp-toothed bit of righteous indignation holding itself just out of arm’s reach—to describe what was happening at some point or another over the next few months. Add to all of this the sudden realization that Lovett was wearing Tommy’s Sleeping Giants t-shirt he’d left at Lovett’s house last weekend, and Tommy felt everything slow to a crawl as the moment hooked itself through his chest and _pulled,_ merciless and sweet.

 _Wow._

Without even thinking, Tommy started clapping, then whistling when he felt like he wasn’t making enough noise. 

Lovett slipped seamlessly back into performance mode and began pointing people out in the audience. “I see a Friend of the Pod… another Friend of the Pod…” He swept his arm out and across his body to acknowledge everyone in the theater, “We’ve got a whole fucking _room_ filled with Friends of the Pod tonight…”

Another round of whooping went up. Tommy looked around in delight, pulling the brim of his Boston Red Sox hat down over his eyes, not wanting to be recognized by Crooked Media’s newest intern, Yasmine, who had drawn the short straw and taken Elijah’s place as director of social media for the night in addition to running the merch table out in the lobby, and was filming the crowd from her place just off-stage.

See, Tommy wasn’t actually supposed to be there. He was supposed to be on a flight to D.C. to do “field work” for next Thursday’s Pod. Which basically meant that he’d inadvertently pulled a few strings and was suddenly (and unexpectedly) invited to see Jared Kushner’s public testimony in person next Tuesday, holy shit. They’d all decided it’d be foolish not to take advantage of the opportunity afforded them during one of the most incredible moments in the country’s history. So Monday, he would try and catch up with a few of the congressional staffers and aides he was still friendly with and report back what he could before Thursday’s postmortem. 

Since word came down Jared couldn’t weasel out of making an in-person appearance, reports had been coming out of D.C. highlighting the feeling of _Oh, shit_ that permeated the hill. The would he/wouldn’t he debate centered around whether Jared would throw his father-in-law under the bus to save his own skin; D.C.’s political oddsmakers had it 3:1 that the Kush would roll on Trump. Like Comey and Sessions before, local bars and taverns were advertising free shots and watch parties for Tuesday’s big show. Hotel rooms were selling out fast, and rumors began swirling that there were going to be roadblocks put up in certain corners of the city to facilitate safety and maximize profits. Journalists confessed in breathless, tell-all fashion about the mood in the streets being pretty fairly split between tense, tight-lipped no-commenters, and the buttering-the-popcorn, ready-for-anything types. Favs had compared it to a feeding-frenzy; Lovett was fairly certain people would start eating each other once everything went down. It was, without a doubt, the most surreal, circus-like bullshit Tommy had ever seen in his life, and he was going to be right in the center of it while the whole fucking world watched right along with him.

“I see a fellow straight-shooter right here in the front row,” Lovett declared, pointing at the man’s shirt. “Sir, I’m afraid the Hollywood Pantages Theater isn’t big enough for the both of us, and they’re contractually obligated to pay me as long as I show up, so…” 

A wave of knowing, West Hollywood laughter rose up around Tommy, who could only shake his head in response. _Lord._

“Security will be by to escort you off the premises,” Lovett explained. 

The man in question laughed and high-fived his friend behind him as the woman next to him recorded the exchange on her phone, cackling.

“Don’t worry, they’ll validate,” Lovett added, running his hand through the mop of curls on his head, looking something like charming even as he giggled at his own joke.

Tommy snorted. _What a dork._

“All right, let’s bring out our panel, because we don’t have a minute to fucking lose tonight, people.”

***

_Four Hours Earlier, LAX Airport_

Tommy knew it was bad when he saw a line to the Delta check-in counter that wound around and stretched back about a quarter of a mile. Disgruntled and distraught people were venting to friends, family, customer service… whoever would listen, really, whether that be in line or on the other end of their phones. 

Shit. 

Looking around, he spotted the wall of screens listing departure and arrival times and headed over. He scanned the east coast flights and winced at the rash of entries highlighted in red and yellow. 

_New York, Nonstop, 4:42 PM, United Airlines - CANCELLED_

_Boston, Nonstop, 4:57 PM, Delta Airlines - CANCELLED_

_Philadelphia, Nonstop, 5:07 PM, American Airlines - CANCELLED_

_Baltimore, Nonstop, 5:15 PM, United Airlines - DELAYED_

_Washington D.C., Nonstop, 5:28 PM, Delta Airlines - DELAYED_

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out to see a text message from Delta. 

_Your 5:20 PM flight to WASHINGTON D.C. has been DELAYED. We apologize for the inconvenience. Your new departure time is at 10:06 PM._

Groaning, Tommy turned around and retreated to the row of empty seats near the terminal entrance and sat down. He looked at his watch. 3:30 PM. _Fuck._

He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath in, weighing his options. Okay. He could go home, eat something, maybe sleep for a few hours, and come back. Or he could try to exchange his ticket for sometime Saturday. Maybe even Sunday. 

Before he could begin debating the pros and cons, his phone buzzed again: Message from Lovett. He opened it immediately, eager for some kind of distraction.

It was a bathroom mirror selfie. Lovett was wearing Tommy’s Sleeping Giants shirt, a smug look on his face. The caption below it read, _I know you only own like 3 t-shirts, but this looks better on me anyways, so I’m only giving it back over my dead body. Or maybe a really great rim job. That could work, too._

Tommy laughed, even as his cheeks started to burn. (Yes, just at that. It was almost embarrassing how quickly Lovett could turn him on—how easy and effortless it was.) _Is that a request?_

_More like a ransom note._

_So, a demand, then._

_I’m just telling you what my negotiating point is._

_You’re willing to negotiate?_

_I’m not having a semantics debate with you about rim jobs._

_Actually… that’s exactly what you’re doing._

_You’re sucking all the sexy out of this conversation, I swear._

_Are we moving onto blowjobs, now? I’m just trying to keep up._

_Speaking from experience, you do more than adequate in that regard, Thomas._

He grinned, shaking his head. Fuck, he missed Lovett already. 

_Are you watching CNN’s unending Kushner PowerPoint presentation right now? It’s like every photo was picked out by a very lonely producer with too much time on their hands._

Tommy lifted his eyes to the grouping of four TVs suspended from the ceiling. Every screen flashed a different news channel—MSNBC, CNN, Bloomberg, and BBC World News America, all of which were covering the Jared Kushner story—but he immediately caught sight of what Lovett was talking about and snorted. Replied, _How’s that gig going, btw?_

_Cute. The human boat shoe’s got jokes._

_You must be writing tonight’s Too Kush To Be True._

_How’d you guess?_

_The lack of an original comeback. Apparently, all I’m good for is recycled insults about my heritage. I’m betting you’re distracted by this GQ photoset._

_Okay, I say that he’s not bad-looking ONCE and suddenly he’s my new Teen Beat coverboy? I don’t think so._

_You said the same thing about Paul Ryan and then proceeded to share your sexual fantasy with the world. Iced tea and all._

_Why are you still bringing that up?_

_Because it’s still fucking hilarious. You and your shame boner._

_Joke’s on you: In true Hollywood fashion, I’m no longer capable of shame._

_I’m rolling my eyes at you right now._

_Some of us have work to do, you know. I’m very busy and important._

Tommy didn’t reply, just chuckled and looked back up at the CNN feed. They were showing the infamous beach photos from after the election—Jared was wearing those stupid blue swim trunks and no shirt. He was tan. _Lithe,_ some asshole might’ve said. _Jesus._

Another three messages vibrated against his hand in rapid succession. “This is sad,” Tommy muttered to himself, looking down at his phone again.

_He is such a twink, good lord._  
_They are going to fuck him up on Tuesday._  
_I can’t believe you get to watch it happen live._

Tommy looked around furtively and rubbed the back of his neck. How was this conversation turning him on? Why? How was this his life? He read the brief string of texts again and asked, _Jealous?_

He watched Lovett’s What'sApp status change from _online_ to _typing._ From _typing_ to _online_ and back again. For a full minute, he leaned his head on his hand, fingers curled along his mouth, and laughed silently to himself as he watched Lovett struggle to come up with an answer.

Finally, he responded: _No comment._

Tommy could not let that stand. _Bullshit! That looked like it might’ve been the most harrowing text of your life and all I get is a shitty “No comment”?_

_God, whatever. I’m trying to work, here, Vietor. Genius must be cultivated. Nurtured._

_I at least expected some kind of accusation of voyeurism. Maybe even some hushed, breathless fantasy about double-teaming._

_THOMAS._

_What? Tell me I’m wrong._

This was greeted with silence. About five minutes worth of it. 

The abrupt halt in their back and forth made Tommy wonder if he’d crossed some sort of line; he bit the inside of his cheek and re-read their conversation. No way, he finally decided. They’d both said much worse, this was barely even a warm up. Or foreplay. And with that thought, he suddenly knew _exactly_ what was going on, and he felt his whole body react. Pictured Lovett spread out on his bed—eyes screwed shut, mouth open, toes curled. Hand working quick and graceless over his cock, like he did when he was skirting along the edge of shattering. Fucking beautiful.

Another three minutes went by before Lovett responded.

_Explain to me again why we thought it was a good idea for you to leave tonight instead of Sunday? I demand restitution._

It seemed Tommy had an answer on what to do about his flight delay.

***

The show was fucking phenomenal.

Lovett had been in top form, but he always was, whenever Trump’s comeuppance appeared close on the horizon. Tonight, he’d been nothing short of a gleeful tour guide to the fast-approaching clusterfuck, and everyone was all too happy to be along for the ride. The panelists had great chemistry and the return of “Fair-Use Feud” was well-worth the legal headache they'd have next week. But the _audience_ … the audience had been next-level good. Tommy had heard the crowds when they were into it before, and experienced a small taste of it as a guest, but this was like a fully-fledged Netflix special or something as soon as Lovett had given his customary, _What a week!_ at the top of the night; Tommy was so fucking proud. 

The majority of the audience exited the theater and poured directly into the lobby as soon as the theme song faded out—the new-and-improved Crooked Media merch had just been unveiled the day before, and people were eager to snap it up. But some lingered to get selfies and talk with Lovett and the rest of the panel—an opening Tommy took full advantage of. 

Keeping his head down and trying not to draw attention to himself, he ducked into the hall and slipped through the door that led backstage. He thought it would’ve required a certain level of stealth. Imagined at least having to make up something about being Lovett’s agent or wrangler or some equally humiliating title, but the two stagehands he did see (shutting off spotlights and gathering up microphones, respectively) didn’t even look at him, let alone stop him.

The actors’ portion of backstage consisted of one makeup table set against the wall beneath a long stretch of mirror, a small bank of lockers, and three dressing rooms. He picked the dressing room furthest away from everything—the one that had the gold star painted on the door, mostly because Lovett was nothing if not predictable. Poking his head in curiously, Tommy smiled when he saw the familiar Zip Recruiter backpack beneath the vanity. 

The door swung shut behind him and he ditched his hat, quickly checking himself out in the mirror and running his fingers through his hair in the places it had started going flat; he nodded at his reflection when he was satisfied.

He wasn’t sure how long Lovett would spend with his adoring public, or whether he had plans to go out with any of the panel afterward. (Or anybody else, for that matter.) He decided that this whole thing was worth it, even if he did—Tommy only needed a few minutes if he and Lovett could have Saturday to themselves. 

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he checked his messages for the first time since before the show, when he dropped off his suitcase, showered, and changed clothes at home; he had two messages from Lovett. 

The first was a photo of him in that very dressing room, holding a pamplemousse La Croix, no caption. He wasn’t quite smiling, but there was an openness and vulnerability in his face that liquefied Tommy’s insides. It was a moment that captured Lovett the way he was when he wasn’t performing, wasn’t measuring himself against anyone else, wasn’t _trying…_ was just being. The way Lovett had been letting Tommy see him more and more. 

The last message looked like it had been sent right before the house lights dimmed and the theme song kicked off: _About to get into it with more than 2700 Friends of the Pod. (Holy shit.) Let a guy know when your flight lands, okay? WYWH._

_WYWH. Wish you were here._

Tommy’s eyes slipped closed. It was shit like this that was killing him slowly, making his heart sing inside his chest like what they had was anything more than Just Sex. How fucking pathetic was it that he could so easily picture what some kind of domesticity could be like with Lovett? Jesus. What was he doing? What were they even doing fooling around like this? It could seriously fuck them up if it all fell apart. Personally, their friendship, but also professionally—everything they’d built. And wasn’t it all just ticking down to nothing? Wasn’t it all just a matter of time before Lovett found someone more interesting and exciting? And then what? They’d try and go back to being friends? Pretend like it never fucking happened in the first place? _Fuck_ that. Why did every good thing in his life feel tenuous, at best? Why was he _like this?_

He shook his head to stop those thoughts. _No. Not now. You are not going to spiral in the back of the Hollywood Pantages Theater, Vietor. Keep it together._

Edging toward anxious and needing to shut it down, Tommy slipped his phone back into his pocket and rubbed his palms together, taking a deep breath and trying to ground himself to the moment, to why he was there in the first place. 

There had been too many schedule conflicts over the past week between booking his trip to D.C., finalizing details with friends and sources, coordinating a last-minute show, recording, not to mention business as usual on top of everything else. It was shitty, and not fair, and it was driving Tommy fucking crazy. How had they done this before, when they were just friends? How did he stand it when Lovett was out of sight, out of reach? He started pacing.

After what felt like an hour, but what was probably something more like twenty minutes, Tommy heard voices. The opening and closing of locker doors. Laughter—Lovett’s slightly manic, after-show giggling rising above the rest.

His eyes fell closed as relief flooded his veins. _Oh, thank god._

Someone asked a question Tommy couldn’t hear. Lovett replied, _It’s so appreciated, but I’ll have to give you a raincheck_. This was greeted with groans of disappointment.

Tommy heard Lovett’s placating, conciliatory, somehow-still-condescending tone: _I know, I know, it’s a tragedy. But I’m single-handedly carrying this media conglomerate on my back, and my night’s not over yet, so…_

Tommy rolled his eyes; he’d have to mention that to Favs. And Dan. And DeRay. And Ana-Marie. And as if on cue, Lovett’s ringtone for Favs split the air. 

Rainchecks were promised amongst a loud round of goodbyes, and then the only voice left was Lovett’s as he answered his phone. _Hey, man, we just finished. It was in-credible. Yeah. Best show yet, for sure. Seriously! Would I bullshit you? Okay, fair point, don’t answer that._

Licking his lips, Tommy leaned back against the edge of the makeup table and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

_Yeah, no, I’m just gonna swing by the studio and do the ads real quick. No, it’s cool, it’ll take me like five minutes. Just please tell me you got me something for dinner? I’m fucking ravenous…_

The door opened. 

Lovett stopped in his tracks as soon as their eyes met, a look of genuine surprise sweeping over his face; Tommy smirked. 

Favs continued to talk on the other end of the line, which Tommy could hear clear across the room with Lovett’s phone volume at maximum. 

_Emily wanted Thai again, is that okay? She says it doesn’t matter because you’re mooching off our Postmates and we got it anyway. We saved you some fried rice, some Kai Yang and some… Em—Em, what is this again? Oh, right, we got you some Som Tam. Sound good? Lovett? You there?_

The door clicked shut.

“Favs, I gotta call you back,” Lovett said in a rush. He didn’t wait for an answer, just hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket.

They met each other at the same time—Tommy shoving Lovett against the door, Lovett pulling Tommy down into a searing kiss. 

Tommy felt as much as heard Lovett groan against his lips in response to being manhandled, getting him hard in no-time flat. (As if he hadn’t been halfway there throughout the entire show.)

Lovett pulled back just enough to ask, “What are you doing here?” 

Tommy didn’t answer. Did it really matter? He hadn’t felt Lovett under his hands in days. That was reason enough—the flight delay just made it legitimate. This was better than endlessly scrolling through Twitter, providing clever rebuttals to assholes entering his mentions about whatever it might’ve been that day. Better than being home alone trying to force himself to sleep before taking a red eye to D.C. with nothing but an empty hotel bed waiting for him there. He kissed Lovett again, licking into his mouth—hungry and desperate. _God,_ this was better than anything. 

Lovett threaded his fingers through Tommy’s hair and yanked his head back so they could look at each other. 

Sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth, Tommy relished the sting, loved how it stoked the lust smoldering in his gut. “You were fucking fantastic tonight,” he murmured, ragged. 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Lovett said, dismissively, rolling his hips against Tommy’s. “Like how the hell you’re here right now.”

Tommy placed a teasing kiss against Lovett’s throat, then pulled his shirt to the side and bit down hard on the sensitive place where neck met shoulder. 

Lovett cried out helplessly.

“Flight was delayed until late," Tommy explained, laving his tongue over the bite mark slowly. “Exchanged my ticket to leave Sunday.”

"Fuck."

Tommy slid his hand between them and teased along the zipper of Lovett’s jeans. “Exactly.”

“Hah.” The small gasp dissolved into ironic, breathy laughter aimed up at the ceiling. “The Favreaus are expecting me for dinner…” It was leading. A statement of fact, as well as a ticking clock.

Tommy grabbed hold of Lovett’s wrists and pinned them unceremoniously against the door. Growled, “I get to have you first.”

For the record: Neither of them had actually told Favs or Emily about what was going on yet; they hadn't told anyone. What were either of them supposed to say? It had only been going on for a couple months. They hadn’t even talked to _each other_ about it, really. Just operated with the understanding that whenever they were alone, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Secrets weren’t the problem, for Tommy—it was the sneaking around. The looking over his shoulder, feeling constantly hyper-aware and on-alert. Keeping tabs on Lovett _and_ Favs _and_ Emily _and_ the interns _and_ everyone else hanging around Crooked Media headquarters. Triangulating proximity and positionality. Calculating risk, weighing it against the promise of pleasure. It was exhausting. But whenever he seriously considered saying something to Favs, all Tommy could think about was how much of an unmitigated disaster it would be.

_Yes, it’s true: We’re fucking._

_No, we haven’t talked about what any of that means._

_No, clearly neither of us were thinking about the business when we made this decision._

_Yes, I’ve been bi this whole time._

_No, Lovett’s not the first._

Jesus Christ. He was _not_ having that conversation yet.

Lovett’s eyes fell closed as soon as Tommy took hold of his wrists; his back arched up off the door. “God, I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

Tommy licked his lips. “What have you been thinking about?”

“You,” Lovett replied, automatic. “This. Throwing me around. Making it hurt.”

Tommy bent his head and nipped at Lovett’s jaw. “Yeah? Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Lovett hissed, the desperation writ clear across his face. " _Please._ "

Tommy never got tired of hearing it. Never got tired of hearing how much he turned Lovett on. How he could give Lovett exactly what he needed. Jon Lovett, who thought in theorems and lyric essays. Who was onto the next punchline before the one in his mouth could even land fully. Who hated alliteration and held stock in a sparkling water company. Who looked like a fucking work of art when he was begging and pliant, for _him._ For Tommy. For _more._

“Take your pants off," he said, letting go of Lovett's wrists. It wasn't a suggestion.

As soon as he was free, Lovett lunged forward and kissed Tommy again, the force of his enthusiasm nearly bowling him over. It felt like an echo of their first night together: Wound up on too little sleep, pressed too close together on the couch and breathing each other’s air. Kissing like it was the only thing that made any kind of sense.

The sharp edge of desire scraped against Tommy's patience and control and he broke them apart, pushing Lovett back against the makeup table. “I _said_ take your pants off.”

Lovett’s gaze darkened with need and his hands went instantly to work. After just a few seconds, Lovett stood before Tommy clad only in his boxer-briefs and the Sleeping Giants shirt, an expectant look on his face.

There was a familiar pull in Tommy’s gut as he stood there, watching. It was anticipation, yes, but it was also the undeniable fact that Lovett was the sexiest person he’d ever seen, in that moment. He briefly considered having him strip completely naked, but there was something thrilling and illicit about the image of Lovett half-clothed while Tommy took him apart. “Get on the table. Back to the mirror. Eyes on me. No talking.” He almost didn’t recognize his own voice. Low. Commanding.

Lovett hopped up onto the counter obediently.

Tommy took a step closer, reaching down to undo his belt. “Hands.”

Lovett’s hips rocked forward at the obscene sound of the buckle clinking in the otherwise silent room. “I love it when you get all monosyllabic and demanding,” he confessed, raising his hands in supplication. 

Tommy cocked his head to the side as he pulled the leather strap through his belt loops. “Are you going to be able to keep quiet?”

Lovett answered knee-jerk and honest: “No. Absolutely not. Not a chance.”

Tommy guided Lovett’s hands through the makeshift restraint he made with his belt, tightening it slowly, making sure it didn’t cut off circulation. “Do I have to gag you?”

“Oh, fuck.”

A dark chuckle rose up between them like smoke. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Lovett looked up at him from under his brows, tongue swiping along his bottom lip. “And let me guess, you just so happen to have a spare ball-gag in your pocket? _Sir?"_ His words hung in the air between them—bratty and taunting. Laying bare the fact that he was grasping for control over _something_ even as he surrendered his body.

Tommy stepped into the space between Lovett’s legs and reached into his pocket, pulling out an old necktie he didn’t wear anymore; he held it up for Lovett to see, letting it unfold before his eyes.

Lovett’s reaction was immediate: All his bravado left him, along with the oxygen inside his lungs. He sagged back against the mirror, and—mouth agape, pupils blown wide—looked at Tommy like he was a god. “You’re a fucking degenerate, holy shit.”

A rash of pride spread down Tommy's chest as he pulled the silk material taut between his hands and pushed it roughly against Lovett’s mouth; he bit down obligingly as Tommy wrapped it around his head and knotted it snugly. As soon as it was secured, Tommy leaned back and inspected his work. Fucking beautiful. 

He made eye contact with Lovett once more and asked, seriously, “Are you okay?”

Lovett rotated his wrists, wiggled his fingers, and breathed deeply in and out. Then nodded, after a moment. 

“How will you let me know if you’re not?”

Blinking, the hints of a grin peeking out from around the tie, Lovett reached out and pulled on Tommy’s ear.

Electricity chased its way down Tommy’s spine as he slid the fingers of his right hand into the curls at the nape of Lovett’s neck and held him still. “Good.”

Lovett made an impatient noise and wrapped his legs around Tommy’s hips, clearly trying to get him _closer. Now. Faster would be better._

Tommy tightened his grip on Lovett’s hair. “You need to calm down,” he explained—slowly, quietly, _pay attention._ “You’re not in charge right now, and I’m going to do whatever I want to you… right?”

Lovett's eyes fluttered shut as he nodded in agreement.

“Okay.” 

Without anymore pomp or circumstance, Tommy rucked up the Sleeping Giants shirt, exposing Lovett’s chest and stomach peppered with hickeys, bruises, and teeth marks—an alluring canvas stained with lust.

_Fuck._

This was all Lovett's fault. The marks, the roughness, the belt, the gag... Tommy _loving it._

It started a few weeks in, just shy of a month. Lovett had driven over to Tommy’s house late one night and let himself in a little after 11:00 without Pundit in tow, which was Tommy's first clue that something was wrong.

Setting his bag on the floor by his shoes, Lovett proceeded to hover in the transitional space between the open-concept living room and kitchen, pacing. After an awkward handful of moments, he finally made his way over to where Tommy sat on the couch, watching CNN.

Lovett crossed his arms tight over his chest and a pinched look came across his face like he had something serious to say but wasn’t quite sure how to say it.

Concerned, brow furrowing, Tommy turned off the TV and looked up at him, forearms resting on his thighs. “What’s up?”

Lovett eyed him warily, guarded. Then blurted out, “I’m gonna say something and I need you to just reply yes or no. Okay?”

Tommy’s heart began to race, but he took a deep breath in and braced himself, needing to be steady. “Okay.”

"Okay." Lovett nodded. He ran a hand over his mouth, then forcibly lowered his arms at his sides and leveled his gaze at Tommy. “I need you to slap me.”

Tommy blinked, not quite understanding. “What?”

“I need you to hit me,” Lovett tried again, voice clear. Firm. _This is what I need._

“Hit you,” Tommy echoed, ears hot and ringing. He knew Lovett liked things a bit rough—biting, being held down, that kind of stuff—but _hitting?_

Jon looked like he might bolt from the room if given half a chance, so Tommy stood up and closed the gap between them; he reached up and cupped his face in his hand, thumb trailing tenderly along his bottom lip. For a moment, the wall Lovett held in place seemed to crumble as he let out a shaky sigh and leaned into Tommy, whose free hand came up to rest on his hip.

But the moment was shattered by Lovett shoving Tommy away from him. "I said _hit me_ ,” he cried, voice choked with emotion. 

Tommy's stomach bottomed out as he stumbled backward; his chest went impossibly tight as he searched Jon's face—his angry eyes glassy with unshed tears. _Jesus Christ, he’s serious._

Uncertainty faded slowly into the background as he started to realize just how much it must have taken for Jon to say something to him. And Tommy decided, right there and looking at him, if nothing else came from Jon’s demand, he could do this one thing for him. So, steeling himself, Tommy stepped forward into Lovett’s personal space, raised his arm, and slapped him, harder than intended—stinging and full-palmed.

The sound echoed terribly inside his ears, and the aftershock that ran up his arm set a sense of immediate dread and regret clawing at his throat. _Shit, fuck, shit, fuck!_

He needed absolution. He needed to know Lovett was okay. He needed Lovett to look at him, and he wasn’t _looking at him._

“Jon…?”

When he finally looked up at Tommy, faint surprise and exquisite relief was splashed across Lovett's face. But more than just relief, his eyes were dark and heavy with arousal. God, he was _fucking beautiful._

“Do it again,” Lovett breathed.

Tommy’s shameful secret was that he would do just about anything for Lovett to keep looking at him like that. Like he was perfect and powerful and the answer to some kind of prayer. So Tommy slapped him again before he could think about it twice, because Lovett asked for it. Needed it. _Do it again._

Lovett groaned like he did when Tommy finally pushed into him after keeping him teetering on the razor’s edge of coming, grateful and eclipsed. Recovering quickly, he grabbed Tommy by the shirt and dragged him forward, attacking him in a kiss.

Tommy felt drunk—dizzy and sweating and maybe needing to sit down—and he found himself _laughing_ into the kiss because he didn’t think there could be anything better than what they’d been doing, but, holy shit, _this?_ Jon being vulnerable and Tommy being able to give him exactly what he needed was everything Tommy could possibly want, right on a silver fucking platter.

Lovett broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against Tommy’s jaw, pulling him in tight and close. “Fuck.”

Maybe it wasn’t that Tommy felt drunk, but like he was _being_ drunk. Intoxicated. Like he was something Lovett _craved;_ it was fucking incredible. 

“Thanks,” Lovett sighed. “Thank you.”

“Was that okay?”

“Jesus Christ, we get it. You’re charming. So fucking polite," Lovett muttered dryly, then grinned bright enough to light up all of Hollywood and kissed Tommy again. 

Tommy put just enough space between them so he could look at him. "I'm serious."

“Of course you are,” Lovett said with a shake of the head and a coy expression spreading itself across his mouth. “Tommy, you did great. You did swell. You delivered like a champ.”

The last remaining knot inside Tommy’s chest began to unravel and he finally felt like he could breathe again. He let out a nervous-embarrassed chuckle and said, “Okay.” 

The next morning, before they left for the office, Lovett stood in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to tame the tangled mess of curls atop his head. Tommy came up behind him and settled his hands on Lovett's hips, kissing one of the hickeys on his neck which had bloomed a ruddy red overnight. Lovett hummed appreciatively, and said, mock-annoyed, “Now I have to stop at Walgreens and see if they have my concealer.”

Tommy smirked and rocked his hips against Lovett’s ass. “I’ll try to keep it below the collar next time.”

He _had_ meant it, but there was no denying that seeing his desire written into Lovett’s skin in such plain language was a fucking headrush. It was addictive, and all he wanted was _more._ Maybe that made him greedy, but, fuck, he just couldn’t help himself. 

Which was exactly how Tommy felt in the back of the Hollywood Pantages Theater: Like he couldn’t help himself. Like he couldn’t wait to prove to Lovett how much it meant to him to be wanted and trusted by him, and how much he wanted Lovett, right back. How he wanted to give Lovett everything he had.

“I just about lost it seeing you wear my shirt onstage,” he admitted, holding it in place against Lovett's collarbones as he leaned forward to kiss a line up his sternum, open-mouthed and lush. “It looks good on you. _Better_ on you.”

And it did. Lovett wore that shirt like it belonged to him, with the kind of authority Tommy rarely felt in his clothes. It was audacious. Proprietary. A non-verbal, declarative statement that made Tommy’s head spin with all its possible implications. “Do you know how sexy you are up on that stage? Audience eating out of the palm of your hand?” He punctuated this question by taking Lovett's left nipple into his mouth and rolling it between his teeth. 

Lovett whimpered as Tommy moved on to tonguing a deep bruise he’d sucked into his chest Sunday night. He did it again, and again—kept agitating that same spot so Lovett could remember that night right along with him. How he’d slowly mapped Lovett’s body using lips, teeth, and tongue. How Tommy kept that pace, even when Lovett, out of his mind, begged him to speed up. To _fuck him for real, goddammit._ To _use him. Wreck him. Hard and fast, Tommy, please. Please, please, ple—fuck!_

And just like Sunday night, Tommy took his time, winding his way down Lovett's body, teasing him. It was a way for Tommy to ground himself in in the moment, as much as it was a way to demonstrate to Jon, _I choose you. I want you. I’m ridiculously turned-on by you._

He knelt onto the floor, ignoring Lovett’s cock straining against his underwear, and pressed his cheek reverently against one of his perfect thighs. There were old marks there, too—shining testaments of adoration. His thighs were the embodiment of poetry and one of the main sources of Tommy’s sexual frustration over literal years, since they both shared an apartment together in D.C. and he had seen more of Jon Lovett’s body than he’d ever bargained for. He kissed every one of the sets of teeth marks, reveling in the feel of soft, smooth skin. “Could barely sit still watching you up there, knowing everybody in the room wanted you. Knowing I’d be the one to have you up against the wall and begging for it when the lights went out.” Tommy dug his nails into Lovett's thighs, then dragged them down to his knees, leaving red trails in his wake.

Tommy heard a low moan and a _thump_ above him. Looking up, he saw Lovett’s head tipped back against the mirror, eyes shut tight, hands clenched, breath hitching; he was close.

“Fuck, you’re about ready to come, aren’t you,” Tommy prodded, his words little more than a surprised, breathy mess of syllables. And _Jesus_ he didn’t think he could get any harder than he was.

Lovett turned his face away and pulled his hands in toward his body, his neck and chest turning a bright scarlet.

Tommy smiled wickedly. “You _are._ I’ve barely even touched you yet and you’re ready to blow your load.” 

Lovett's back arched, and he let out a small sob.

Tommy stood once more, wrapping his hand around the free end of the belt until there was no slack at all, and he was in total control of Lovett's arms and hands. “You were hard all the way through the show, weren’t you? Hard from the applause, from the audience… from everybody clapping for you, everybody cheering for you. You could barely keep it together until you could get backstage...”

Mewling a little, Jon's legs came up to wrap around Tommy’s hips again, urging him on; that was a yes if he'd ever heard one.

Tommy marveled, shaking his head. "Even now. Look at you. Such a slut for even the slightest bit of praise and undivided attention."

A tinny whine edged its way past Jon's teeth as Tommy pulled on the belt and raised his arms above his head, putting him on full display. He loved taking this liberty, now that he was allowed. He would lose himself in looking. Let a litany of adulation pour freely from his mouth, which Lovett would drink up like wine. Because while it was true that Lovett was a slut for the attention, Tommy wasn't much better: He was all too eager to give all of it over to Lovett without needing to be asked. 

Tommy bent his head and lowered his voice, until it was little more than a whisper: “You were so damn funny, and charming... so effortlessly fucking clever. You did so good out there, Jon." He pressed a featherlight kiss to the slope of his neck. "So fucking proud of you, baby.”

That was it. Lovett bit down on the gag as he shattered and broke all over his stomach.

Tommy wasted no time in dropping to his knees to lick it up, grateful and, fuck, a little smug, too. Hearing Jon come apart so thoroughly lit a fire inside of Tommy he couldn’t explain. There was pride there, certainly—reducing Jon Lovett to a wordless mess was something that never got old. But more than that, Tommy wanted so badly to please him. Make him feel good. Make him _feel,_ period.

When he was done, Tommy spared a look up at Lovett, whose chest rose and fell quickly as he trembled through the aftershocks. Reaching up, Tommy pulled the loose knot free and eased the silk tie from between his teeth.

Panting, half-naked, wrists secured, flushed, marked… Lovett looked the picture of debauched. Just absolutely wrung-out and gorgeous.

Tommy laid the palm of his hand against Lovett’s cheek, waiting for him to respond. When Lovett didn’t speak or look at him, Tommy shuffled closer. “Jon?”

After a moment, Lovett’s eyes slowly cracked open and fixed themselves on Tommy. His expression didn’t change; he looked completely out of it. Dazed. 

Tommy tried again, “Are you okay?” 

The barest hints of a smile touched the corners of Jon's mouth, and finally— _finally_ —he nodded and lifted his hands, signaling to Tommy to undo the restraint.

The breath Tommy was holding rushed out behind a relieved grin. Standing, he took careful hold of Lovett’s wrists and removed the belt, letting it fall away and coil onto the floor.

As soon as his hands were free, Lovett reached out and curled his fingers into Tommy’s shirt, tugging him closer.

Tommy obeyed without thought or question, leaning into Jon’s personal space, trying to catch his gaze.

Lifting his chin, Lovett murmured, “Kiss me.”

Tommy’s heart swelled and ached. God, he _loved_ Jon. So much. Too much. He tried not to think about how much. Tried not to think about how Jon might feel about it, if Tommy were to ever tell him. Tried not to think about how worshipping his body wasn’t purely a selfless act, that it was also a way to memorize every part of him so Tommy could live on the memory later. Because nothing that felt as good as the moments they spent together could last for long, let alone forever, right? So Tommy tried not to think at all as he pressed a soft kiss to Lovett’s lips; thinking had never done him many favors.

Lovett pulled away first and let out a deep, contented sigh, letting his eyes fall closed once more as he settled back against the mirror; his grip on Tommy’s shirt went slack, but it was still faintly there, keeping Tommy right where he was. After a moment of comfortable silence, the corner of Lovett's mouth quirked upward. “'Dear diary…'”

Tommy snorted and nudged Lovett's knee with his hip. “You dick.”

“You’re right, too cliche,” Lovett conceded. He opened his eyes and tried again: “‘Dear Penthouse.’ No, wait, too straight.”

“Oh, gross, dude,” Tommy groused, face screwing up. 

Lovett full-on smirked. “Okay, I got it: ‘Dear Failing New York Times…’”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Are you are done?"

“Done?" Lovett pulled Tommy closer. "I’m just getting started...”

Tommy spared a look up at the wall clock above their heads; the show had been over for almost forty minutes. “I thought the Favreaus were expecting you for dinner,” he countered. 

Lovett said nothing, just slid a hand between them and cupped Tommy's hard-on through his jeans.

“Fuck,” Tommy sighed, licking his lips. 

“Mm,” Lovett hummed, a triumphant little noise. "Bright boy."

 _Oh, god._ Tommy felt his entire body flush at those words. _Bright boy._ Jon had called him that a grand total of three times, and every single time it was like the first time. It made a mess of him. Tripped his stutter. Made it impossible to make eye contact or hold a thought in his head. Ruined him for anything other than doing everything Jon asked or demanded of him. It was devastating. It was perfect. He shone like gold.

“Yah... Yasmine...?” Tommy breathed, brow knitted and creased. He had successfully dodged her before the show, but he wasn’t sure if she and Lovett had gone directly to the Pantages together from the office. The unspoken _She’s not waiting for you to take her back to HQ, is she?_ hung in the air.

“Already on her way home,” Lovett assured him, giving him a light squeeze. "Promise."

Tommy moaned softly; this wasn't part of the original plan. He hadn’t even thought about himself except in relation to Jon in this scenario. Surprising Lovett wasn't about _him,_ it was about Lovett. But he was _so close_. Almost painfully hard. And Lovett's hand felt so good on his dick. Maybe, Tommy thought, maybe there was enough time. Maybe it was okay. Maybe he could allow himself this. To give in. To surrender entirely. To let Jon do whatever he wanted to him.

But before he could even consider it fully, a member of the theater staff yelled backstage: _Anyone back here? Last call! We’re closing up the house!_

"Jesus Christ," Tommy hissed, nearly jumping out of his skin.

Lovett's mouth formed a perfect "O" as his eyebrows nearly leapt off his face and he collapsed into soundless laughter against Tommy's chest. "Oh-ho-ho, shit!"

"Ohhh... that's not funny," Tommy groaned, head tipped back.

"Are you kidding? It's hilarious. The perfect ending to this budget porno scene," Lovett said, flip, as he sat up and smoothed his hands down Tommy's chest. "Just a minute,” Lovett called over Tommy’s shoulder.

Tommy scoffed, still coming down from the intense spike of adrenaline, "Right. So, we get caught and you wouldn't mind becoming just another Hollywood cliche?"

Lovett hooked his fingers through Tommy's beltloops and rocked their hips together. "Of course not. I'll be the best goddamn cliche you've ever had."

Tommy rolled his eyes to cover the blush spreading from his ears to his kneecaps. "Oh-kay. That's enough. Time to go."

"Are you sure you don't want me to finish you off? Can you even _walk_ right now," Lovett teased.

Despite himself, Tommy let out a soft laugh. "I hate you so much."

"False. Fake news. I am a _delight._ And you _love_ me."

There it was. His truth, coming out of Jon's mouth. Albeit, in a way that sounded like it was some kind of bait. To continue their banter, to get his way... something. But it wasn't just that, or even all the way that. The edges of his vowels weren't smoothed out enough for it to be solely a joke; there was a smile in the words, but not in the eyes. It was forced bravado. Like on those days when Jon played the role of Lovett even when his self-loathing was eating away at his bones. Or those nights when the full weight of the realization that he was witnessing the decline of western civilization and felt powerless to stop it settled squarely on his shoulders, and he'd lash out at someone in the audience of a live show who happened to be eating or wearing a homemade Friend of the Pod shirt or, god forbid, tried to say something funny when holding the microphone. Tommy couldn't quite decipher what it was beneath Jon's words; it made him nervous. It made him think that maybe Jon saw right through him, and it was provocation. An attempt to get Tommy to confess everything he was holding back. Whether that be out of kindness, some fucked-up powerplay move, or for his own peace of mind, Tommy couldn't quite say. And there he was, thinking again. Over-thinking. Making everything worse. He felt an invisible metal hook come around his stomach and _pull_ like it did whenever he saw disaster close on the horizon.

And instead of taking that weird, maybe-perfect moment and making something real out of it, Tommy choked. Muttered weakly, "Yeah, keep telling yourself that, loser," and bent at the waist to pick up Jon's skinny jeans and toss them to him. "And put your pants back on." It was pathetic.

Lovett blinked. Caught his jeans. Held them in both hands and stared at Tommy like he was a stranger. And Tommy knew instantly that he'd made a mistake—failed some kind of test, fucked up—because he felt a door slam shut between them.

After a tense moment, Lovett slid off the make-up table and began to silently shimmy into his pants, avoiding Tommy's gaze.

Unsure of what to do, feeling lost and bereft, Tommy grabbed his hat and pulled it on. Looked at his belt on the floor, feeling sick and made no move to touch it. "You need a ride," he asked, desperate for something to say.

"Nah, I think I'll hitchhike," Lovett replied, words clipped. Snide. "Catch a ride with some eager Friend of the Pod still hanging around 33 Taps or Delphine." 

Tommy tried to think of some witty rejoinder, even as his stomach clenched in jealousy and uneasiness. "You mean someone angling to be Boyfriend of the Pod?"

Lovett scoffed. "Who said anything about me wanting a boyfriend?"

 _Fuck._ It was like a punch to the gut. He swallowed the acidic lump that was suddenly wedged in the back of his throat and scrambled to reach for the first comeback he could think of: "So Zip Recruiter's still helping you sort through those Sugar Daddy applications then?" It was an old joke that originated from a late night of ad recordings back when they first started the pod. Something that was familiar and meant to lighten the mood.

"Fuck you," Lovett snapped. Bitter. Serious.

Tommy felt the shame staining his face, spreading across his neck and chest. He sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Oh, come on, it was just a joke."

Lovett zipped up his backpack and sneered, "Because WASPs are so well-known for their sense of humor."

Tommy blinked. "What?"

Lovett stood and leveled a look at him that he hadn't seen in years. Something angry. Nasty. Feral. "You want a joke? Here's a joke: ‘My name's Tommy. I'm not gay, I just play one on the weekends because I can't hold down a woman, no matter how many times I propose.’ How's that? Hysterical, right?"

It was cruel. Meant to get underneath the skin and draw blood. It was a tool Jon used when he needed to talk himself out of a situation: Cut them so deep they can't hurt you back, even if all you've done is open your mouth. He didn't even bother to watch Tommy's reaction, just turned to scoop up his shoes and socks.

The hair on the back of Tommy's neck stood on end, and his entire body went very still and cold. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "What did you just say to me?"

Lovett stood back up and spit out, "What, you want an encore, you fucking masochist? _You heard me!"_

Tommy became suddenly aware that he wanted to hit something and forcibly uncurled his fists from his side, turning away, angry and embarrassed. "I... don't even want to _look_ at you right now," he said, pulling out his car keys from his pocket as he crossed the room. "And you can walk home for all I care, you _complete_ piece of shit."

He didn't think or breathe again until he was inside his car.

***

It was almost 3:00 AM. The dog next door had been barking off and on for almost an hour. Four cars had passed by his house in that time, light from their headlights washing across the room and then receding like waves.

Tommy couldn't sleep.

He'd driven straight home in total silence, blood pounding in his ears, knuckles white on the steering wheel. He sat in his car after he pulled into the garage and shut off the ignition, playing the entire night over in his mind, from his decision to exchange his plane ticket at the airport to when he left the theater alone and hollowed-out; he sat there for almost half an hour, seatbelt still fastened.

Jon's sharp words echoed inside his head. Followed him as he retreated into the house. As he paced from room to room. _I'm not gay, I just play one on the weekends._ What the fuck. Did he actually think that way about bi people? Did he really think that about Tommy?

Tommy remembered when he told Jon he was bi. It was the night before he left D.C. for L.A., in the middle of the going away party he had organized for himself. Tommy had only come to grips with how bad he had it for Lovett the day he told Tommy he was moving out. It had crept up on him slowly and hit him so hard, Tommy panicked; he had no idea what to do. And not knowing what to do meant that he said goodbye to the sense of self-preservation and healthy coping skills he'd started to learn in the wake of Katie breaking off their engagement, choosing instead to throw himself headfirst into self-medication. That night, it took the form of licking tequila out of the mouth of a congressional aide who had a jaw that could cut glass and looked nothing like Jon Lovett, out back of The Sovereign bar in Georgetown.

It had been months since the mere thought of Katie would ruin the rest of his day. Weeks since he felt like he was returning to something like normal. Days since he had gotten any kind of regular sleep. He was running on empty. Past empty, really. He was spiraling. The weight of knowing Jon would be gone in a matter of hours was unbearable. But David was pretty and smelled good and made him forget, even if only for a little while, that he was on the brink of having some kind of nervous breakdown. Or midlife crisis. After twenty or so minutes of heavy making out, David had asked Tommy to go back to his apartment; Tommy politely declined. Sure, he'd spent the night resolutely ignoring Lovett, like any person who was stupidly in love with their best friend might the night before they moved across country, but he couldn't just _leave;_ it was the kind of logic that only made sense in the fog of own brain. So they exchanged phone numbers before David caught a cab back toward Logan Circle, even though Tommy knew he'd never hear from him again.

Tommy sagged back against the brick wall and closed his eyes, trying to get a hold of himself. He wasn't drunk, but everything around him seemed to be spinning behind his eyes. Distantly, he heard the back door open and shut, squeaking on its hinges as it allowed a noisy group of people out into the alley. Tommy grit his teeth and willed them to disappear quickly so he could muster the courage to go back inside. Then, a familiar voice said, "There you are."

Tommy opened his eyes to see Jon standing in front of him, eyeing him strangely. A few of the people Tommy recognized from earlier were talking and laughing their way toward Wisconsin Avenue; they called for Lovett to join them, and he replied that he'd catch up.

When they were gone, Jon crossed his arms over his chest against the crisp night air. "What are you doing out here," he asked, sounding half-irritated, half-curious.

Tommy scrubbed a hand over his face and straightened up. "Nothing," he sighed. "You having fun?"

Lovett arched an eyebrow. "Are you drunk?"

An amused, exhausted puff of air escaped from between Tommy's lips as he pushed himself off the back wall of The Sovereign. "I'm fine."

Jon followed him as he walked toward Prospect. "Did you just solicit someone for a blowjob during my fucking going away party?"

Tommy stopped in his tracks. "What are you talking about?"

"You have that insufferable post-orgasm glow on your face and you disappeared for like an hour."

There was too much to unpack in that sentence, so he focused on the most salient points, not _angry,_ per se, but seriously fucking annoyed: "Okay, first of all, it was _maybe_ twenty minutes. And second of all, go to hell, I don't have to answer to you."

Lovett's eyebrows lifted almost to his hairline, indignant. "Uh, excuse me? Tell that to someone who hasn't been nursing you out of your broken engagement, broken home depression, okay? I want to make sure I don't leave you in some emotional black hole before I get to California. Now, let's try that again."

Tommy felt his face go hot in embarrassment; he licked his lips and shoved his hands in his pockets. He thought about just telling Lovett everything, laying his heart bare. Freeing himself of the cagey, giddy intensity that belonged to wanting his acquaintance-turned-roomate-turned-friend he hadn't been sure he even liked six months ago. _There's no time like the present._ But Tommy couldn't do it. Maybe because he really was a coward underneath it all. Or maybe because Jon had a look in his eyes that said, _Please don't be broken again because I need to get out of this place._ And Tommy knew it wasn't right to do that to him.

So what Tommy really said was, "His name is David and we just made-out a little, okay? Nothing serious: No blowjob, no solicitation, fuck you very much. All right?"

Lovett blinked. "You're gay?"

"Bi," Tommy corrected. Then shrugged. He didn't want to make a big thing about it.

Jon said nothing at first, his face a mask of surprise. But something soon shifted in his gaze, and Tommy felt it the _moment_ Jon looked at him differently. Felt his belly tremble a bit, as he watched Jon rearrange the picture of who he was inside his head, as he watched Jon’s struggle to reconcile what he knew to be true about him. He saw the question in Jon's head come across his face clear as day: _How could I have missed this?_

Tommy found himself suddenly breathless in waiting for a response, nervous and trying not to give it away.

Slowly, the hints of a smile he had never seen before touched Jon's mouth. "Was he cute?"

Relieved, Tommy let out all the air in his lungs in something like a laugh: David had looked like a smaller, trimmer version of Hugh Jackman. So he shook his head and lied soundly, “Not 'Dear Diary' worthy."

Lovett seemed satisfied with that answer, but tossed over his shoulder, “Then what's the point," as he headed toward Prospect. "C'mon, we're meeting Favs at 1831."

Tommy followed him, silent and grateful; they caught a cab downtown, and didn’t say another word about it.

Jon stuck close to Tommy for the rest of the night, going out of his way to make Tommy laugh, crowing in triumph when, hovering somewhere near closing time, Tommy did an honest-to-God spit-take. Delighted, Lovett leaned back from the bar and shouted, “Everybody drink!” Their small group cheered and knocked back their shots and Tommy collapsed against Jon’s shoulder, giggling helplessly.

Their goodbye was a quiet affair not long after sunrise, the two of them looking hungover as shit at this little neighborhood breakfast spot just off the metro between Petworth and Parkview. Tommy held his coffee mug between both hands, shoulders hunched, praying for his stomach to quiet down enough to get some food in it before he passed out. Lovett sat across from him, head on his hand, and a pair of sunglasses he hadn’t started the night with settled over his eyes; Tommy was fairly certain he heard the faint sounds of snoring.

A small, private smile came over his face then, accompanied by the sting of tears he hadn’t let himself cry yet. He closed his eyes and took a scalding hot sip of coffee because he’d be damned if he let himself fall apart while Jon was still there in front of him. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, apparently loud enough to rouse Lovett from his stupor.

“Mm, did we order yet,” he mumbled, the edges of his words soft and blurred. He reached for his water glass and struggled to find the straw with his tongue when he brought it up to his mouth.

Tommy shook his head, and said with far too much affection, “Idiot.” He crumpled up Jon’s straw wrapper in one hand and threw it at him. “How drunk are you right now?”

Lovett was gone three hours later.

God, that was another lifetime ago.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he fumbled for it frantically. As soon as he saw it was a fucking CNN push notification, he threw the phone onto the couch and vowed to cancel his subscription. He let out a shaky breath and scrubbed his hands over his face. What was he doing? He wasn't sure when he ended up in the living room, or how long he'd been standing there, lost in memories. The house felt quiet and very still in the wake of it all. Something alien and strange, not belonging to the places his mind went; it left him feeling drained.

He should try to sleep, he finally decided, knowing he wouldn’t get the answers he needed until he talked to Jon himself.

With a sigh, he grabbed his phone and shut off the lights in the living room and kitchen. Debated whether or not to set an alarm while he brushed his teeth and washed his face, and decided against it only when he slipped under the covers.

_I'm not gay, I just play one on the weekends._

Tommy closed his eyes, stomach twisting; he remembered a time when he didn't know what he was, or what was happening to him. All of seventeen, and sick about it. Sick about feeling like he didn't know himself at all, miserable and in love.

Jesus, he hadn't thought about Trevor in years.

Trevor shared Tommy’s homeroom and study hall during his senior year of high school. Trevor looked like a Kennedy and liked the same things Tommy and his other friends did—Red Sox, Patriots, sailing—but there was something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something he couldn’t quite name. He had these eyes. Freckles. Hands. An _amazing_ singing voice. Tommy remembered one day near the end of term, they were in his room upstairs, and he was fucking around on his acoustic guitar. Somehow, they settled into “More Than Words” by Extreme. (Which made Tommy laugh with the absurdity of it all. In hindsight, it was just so embarrassingly obvious.) Trevor started singing along with Tommy without asking and without any prompting, like he was born to do it and had just been waiting for his cue. As soon as their voices locked into harmony, Tommy felt the earth beneath them shift, and for the five minutes it took for them to sing through the song, looking into each other’s eyes, Tommy felt what love was for the first time. And it fucking terrified him.

It fucking terrified him when Trevor pressed his lips to Tommy’s and Tommy kissed back like it was all he ever wanted to do. And when summertime came, he felt fucking terrified of how much sorrow accompanied his relief at Trevor going away to the Hamptons with his family, leaving Tommy alone and aching and confused. He remembered the betrayal he carried around inside his chest that summer—heavy and suffocating—because nobody had prepared him for the way his body would react around another guy, let alone one of his friends. He didn't have the vocabulary for the things he felt, because he _wasn't_ gay (he didn't think), but feeling the way he did about Trevor meant he wasn't quite straight, either, was he? He was afraid. Afraid that there wasn't any such thing as halfway or in-the-middle or in-between.

College was so much easier. There was a kind of casual sexual fluidity present in the groups he found himself in at Kenyon, which in retrospect, was like some sort of miracle. Maybe it was the unspoken, mutual understanding among students attending a Catholic school that meant keeping their mouths shut was prerequisite. About drugs. About birth control and the occasional abortion. About parties and semi-anonymous gay sexual encounters. While he dated women exclusively, Tommy had this habit of falling into these _scenarios_ with guys from time to time—mostly athletes, a few guys from the frats. He learned what he liked. What he was good at. How to hide, when he needed to. They were the kind of frenzied, high-pressure, ecstatic experiences he came to thrive in and crave—something he wouldn’t feel again until he was out on the campaign trail.

And then there was Katie. He remembered the night he decided to propose. He was out drinking with Dan and Alyssa—Favs and a few others had gone home already; Lovett was somewhere else, some place he didn’t know. Dan had gone to get another round of drinks, and Alyssa was seated next to him. Katie was on a flight back from Dallas and had said she would text him when she got home, so Tommy kept checking his phone about every six minutes.

Alyssa leaned her shoulder against his and said, conspiratorially, "You got it bad, Vietor."

At her accusation, he looked up from his screen and grinned, abashed. Caught. He put his phone away and said, matter of fact, "I’m gonna marry her," before finishing the last swig of his Sam Adams.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Alyssa lit up and started in on him about details. When did he plan to propose? Did he have a ring picked out? How could she help?

He laughed, feeling dizzy and light—so much of his and Katie's time together felt like that, to him. The funny thing was, he hadn't meant to say it at all. But once it was out there, spoken aloud and witnessed by another person, he felt a sense of peace settle over himself because he had really, truly meant it.

He was on a flight to Paris a few weeks later, and when she said yes, it was like the ending to some kind of fairytale; he should have known then that they were never going to make it.

_I can't hold down a woman no matter how many times I propose._

He looked at the clock; it was almost 3:00 AM.

Disgusted, frustrated, Tommy threw the covers off his body and headed into the bathroom. He flicked on the light and turned the shower on. As his eyes adjusted, he looked at himself in the mirror and let out a deep sigh. Decided to make a plan. By the time he finished up, shaved, and got dressed, he could go for a run. If he made breakfast, he could even go to Griffith Park and see the sunrise. He nodded at his reflection: It was a solid plan.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

Tommy jumped slightly, head automatically turning toward the sound. Confused, he shut off the tap and padded back into the bedroom, going directly to the window, parting the blinds. Before he could see anything or anyone in the driveway, there came a burst of impatient knocking.

It was Lovett. It had to be, there was no other reason for someone to be at his door without calling first.

_Shit._

Tommy ran a hand over his face, debating with himself for only a minute about whether he'd open the door. Decided there really wasn't an alternative.

He was halfway across the living room when Lovett knocked again, this time accompanied by a familiar bark. His eyes slipped closed in annoyance for a brief moment before he reached down to unlock and open the door.

Jon stood on his front step in sneakers, sweatpants, a sleep shirt, and his retro gamer hat, holding Pundit in his arms. "This is fucking stupid," he announced and pushed his way past Tommy and into the house.

"Won't you come in," Tommy asked dryly, shaking his head as he shut the door. Because, really, what did he expect? 

Lovett set Pundit on the floor and went immediately to the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator and fishing out a can from the stash of Diet Cokes Tommy kept in there for him.

Tommy watched Pundit run into the living room and jump onto the armchair she adored, making herself at home. "You were saying," he tried, hoping Jon would just spill whatever it was he drove the nearly twenty minutes across town to say.

Without missing a beat, Lovett cracked open his Diet Coke and asked, “So, are we dating? What are we doing?”

Tommy licked his lips. “We haven’t talked about it yet.”

“We’re talking about it right now.” It was terse. Possessing the same tone as his 7th grade math teacher after Tommy asked a question about percentages. _Should I say it louder or slower, Mr. Vietor?_

"Oh, is that what we're doing?" Tommy crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm sorry, I was under the impression you didn't want a boyfriend. Especially one that was only pretending to be gay on the weekends. So, I don't know what you're talking about."

Lovett took a swig from his Diet Coke before setting it on the counter and walking over to Tommy so they were only a couple feet away from one another.

Tommy lifted his brows expectantly but said nothing.

"I'm sorry." Jon said, soft and sincere. There was tension in his voice and shoulders as he held himself sill and open, but Tommy could see that he meant it and was trying. "It was shitty. I only said it to be an asshole."

Looking down, Tommy scuffed his foot against the floor. _You are an asshole,_ he wanted to say, because it was true. He bit the inside of his cheek and stayed quiet.

"I don't actually think that about you," Lovett continued.

Of course not. He was just doing what he always did when up against something that had the potential to hurt him: Using whatever means necessary to get out of it. It was fucking bullshit. Tommy scoffed. "Oh, really?"

Lovett looked offended. "Yes, really. Jesus."

"Well, then, what the fuck, Jon?"

"I _just said_ I was being an asshole—"

"For _what?_ What did I do? One second, everything's fine, the next—"

"Answer the question: Are we dating or not?" There was an edge in Lovett’s words. Some combination of emotions Tommy couldn’t pinpoint exactly, altogether demanding, defensive, and impatient; he wanted to know the answer right then, as though everything hung in the balance. 

And, fuck. Maybe it did.

Tommy felt himself starting to get angry again. "Is that what we're doing? Dating? We’ve known each other almost a fucking decade, aren’t we a little beyond dinner and a movie at this point?”

"Fucking _semantics!_ ” Lovett shouted. “I don't _care_ what you call it, I just want to _know_ —"

"Know _what?"_

"What are we _doing?”_

The sound of Jon’s confusion and desperation was physically painful. Not just because it killed Tommy to hear him like that, but because he saw his own anxieties and fears mirrored in Jon’s eyes. For so long, Tommy dreaded asking Jon for definition and clarity because the speaking of it could make everything they had disappear. Because it meant Tommy would be totally incapable of keeping his secret: That there was nothing casual about the way he felt about Jon—who seemed to breeze through dates and hookups and situationships with such blasé, insouciant ease. That their stolen moments meant so much more to him than convenience or scratching an itch. And in trying so hard to protect himself, Tommy had completely missed what not-talking about things might’ve been doing to Jon. How he might've been _hurting_ Jon. Not in the way Jon had trusted him to, the way Jon begged to be hurt, but the way that could destroy everything between them. 

Tommy lowered his eyes, ashamed; he couldn’t take Jon’s gaze on him. _You are such a fucking idiot,_ he thought to himself.

”What are we doing,” Lovett tried again, quieter. At a loss.

Tommy’s throat went tight. “Do you want to stop,” he asked, voice thready and bare.

“Do you,” Lovett countered.

He looked up; this was important. “No, I don’t.”

“Well good. Neither do I.” It was said quickly, his arms still crossed over his chest.

Of all the ways he thought this moment might go, Tommy hadn't foreseen something like this. Everything felt fragile and surreal, as though he was watching it happen to someone else, each of them pushed to the brink of snapping; they eyed each other warily.

As the moment stretched into awkwardness, Lovett said, “But I’m not going to be your secret. If we’re gonna do this, we do it. Enough of this D.C. down-low bullshit. I’m sick of all this sneaking around.”

Tommy stared at him; he couldn't have heard Jon right. "What?"

Lovett grit his teeth and looked at the ceiling, making an exasperated sound. "I don't date closet cases, Tommy! I already did my share of that shit, and I don't want to do it anymore. And if that doesn't work for you, then..." he trailed off into nothing, shrugging his way out of explaining the alternative.

"You..." Tommy rubbed the back of his neck, heart beating loud enough to give away the hope swelling in his chest. "You really want to do this.” It wasn’t a question, exactly. He just wanted to make sure. _Needed_ to make sure, not daring to believe.

"No, I'm here with my dog in my pajamas in the middle of the night because I want to talk about Jared Kushner's public testimony and strategize for Monday's pod. Jon's on his way over."

As if understanding Lovett was talking about her, or perhaps commenting on the whole scene before her, Pundit barked once.

Tommy sighed and shook his head. "I'm serious." He was wound far too tight for jokes. So he asked the one question he wanted to know: "What do you want?"

Lovett took a deep breath in, squaring his shoulders; Tommy braced himself for a scathing remark, or another item to be listed on how he had royally fucked up since they began. Instead, Jon murmured, "For you to still want me tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. For the foreseeable future."

The silence in the wake of Lovett's answer was deafening as Tommy's heart took flight. Was that all?

"Done. What else?"

Lovett let out an incredulous breath. "Just like that?"

Tommy shrugged. "Obviously."

"'Obviously?' Are you familiar with the definition of the word?"

Conceding the point, Tommy stepped forward, so there was only a precious few inches between them. "I want you. Today. Tomorrow. Next week." He spoke clearly, trying to convey how much he meant it, how it was an absolute truth. 

Lovett licked his lips, and Tommy watched him rein in any kind of reaction until he could answer one more thing: "And what about telling people?"

"Let's do it. I'm ready if you are."

"Wait. Really?" Lovett's brow furrowed. "I don't get it."

"I never wanted..." No. That wasn't right. Not quite. He tried again: "I didn't know how serious you were about this. Us. And... I didn't want to ask because asking would make it real. And if it was real, it could end." He shifted his weight on his feet uncomfortably; his face felt like it was on fucking fire. "It's so stupid, I know, believe me. But. I didn't… I didn't want to lose this. Lose you. And if we weren't an official _thing_... if we were just... having fun..." He shrugged helplessly. "I mean, it wasn't anybody else's business, Jon. I wasn't _ashamed_ of you. Or of being with a guy. I just..."

"'Just' what?"

Tommy bit the inside of his cheek and let out a harsh breath. "You want to know why I didn't say anything to anyone? Why I didn't make some announcement?" He put on his best fake-cheerful voice and said, "'Yeah, hey, Favs. Just wanted to give you the 4-1-1 on mine and Lovett's relationship, since you totally asked. So a few months ago we made-out and blew each other late one night at Crooked HQ—totally cool, right? And after that super professional decision we decided to start fucking on the regular. Surprise! No, we haven't had a conversation about any of it yet, and we definitely didn't think about the possible consequences to our business partnership. But don't worry! It'll all work out! Promise. Feel free to tell Emily and Dan and the rest of the office. See ya tomorrow!' Are you kidding me?" 

Lovett stared at him for a full ten seconds before he burst out laughing; a grin pulled on the corners of Tommy's mouth, as involuntary as it was indulgent.

"'The 4-1-1'? Is it suddenly 1986? Are you auditioning for the role of Valley Girl somewhere?"

Tommy shrugged, dispelling some of the awful tension in his body. "I always wanted to be in a John Hughes movie," he joked.

Lovett hummed and reached out to settle his hands along Tommy's sides, bridging the gap between them. "You do have point," Lovett murmured, leaning in to rest his forehead against Tommy's jaw. "Touché."

Goosebumps rose up off Tommy's skin at Jon’s touch and as he pressed his lips to the crown of Jon' head. Breathed, "I'm sorry I hurt you,” and felt his fear start to fall away from him.

"It's okay," Lovett sighed, and meant it.

They stayed like that for a moment—pressed against each other and wordless—before Tommy pulled away enough to meet Jon's eyes. "So. We're doing this?"

"Obviously," Lovett replied, rolling his eyes, unable to hide the soft smile on his face.

A relieved breath unwound itself from inside Tommy's chest, coming out just shy of a laugh. "Obviously," he echoed.

Lovett curled a hand around the back of Tommy's neck, bringing their mouths together in a tender kiss. Tommy leaned into it, into Lovett's solid presence, and felt something finally click and fall into place inside of himself. Something wild and unafraid and right.

**Author's Note:**

> For reference:
> 
> 1\. [This](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2016/12/26/16/3BA4142800000578-0-image-m-16_1482770430859.jpg) is one of the Jared Kushner bathing suit photos mentioned in the CNN powerpoint presentation. 
> 
> 2\. [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8u6hb2FvQc) is the restraint Tommy made for Lovett's hands out of his belt.
> 
> 3\. Can't remember what "More Than Words" sounds like? [Click here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1nOtd-d_ENI).
> 
> 4\. The title of this piece is a lyric from the Sylvan Esso [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2z5I59NHW-I) "Dreamy Bruises."


End file.
